


Micro-Fic Dump 4

by aquatarius



Series: Micro Fic Dump [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 06:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8522989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquatarius/pseuds/aquatarius
Summary: More Mirco-Fics.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Can't believe how long it's been since I posted one of these. :X I'm doing a challenge for my tumblr where I write ships drabbles with a 10 sentence minimum. You should hop over there and drop a number between 1-65 in my inbox. ;3c (aquatariuswriter.tumblr.com)
> 
> In order of apperence, RoseJade, TavDia, KanRezi, DamMeu, and EriDirk.

Being a witch, you should know more then anyone that things lurk in the dark and cannot be seen by normal eyes. Things like the True Witch, a being who could twist space and time itself at any whim she might have. Your dark work is but a shadow of that great power, the Elder Witches you serve would crackle like dry leaves if the True Witch so much as breathed in their direction. 

Her sacred animals are dogs and wolves and frogs. You don’t care for any of those yourself. You’re more of a cat person. Cats are quiet, smart, and cold, like yourself. But, you reluctantly get a dog as well, and let it run around outside while you and Jasper (Your cat) stay inside and work on your dark magic. 

One day, you’re working on a letter to a prince who’s deeply interested in ‘light magic and science’, which you intend to be a crowning master piece among the other scathing letters that make up a long line of insulting pieces of writing you’ve sent to ignorant douchebags and insufferable pricks. Your ink stained fingers hold the quill that dances above a paper and details exactly where he can stick his request for your ‘absurd opinions’ and all you can hear is the loud purring of Jasper and the dog barking outside and the scritch-scratch of pen on paper and-Why is the dog barking?

You lift your head and stare at the door. 

“Who’s a good puppy! Who’s a beautiful boy! Is it you? Is it you?! It’s you! Good boy, what a good boy!” 

What the fuck. You set down your quill, remove Jasper from your lap, and go over to the door. You open it and look out. A woman with a long, bright green dress, dark skin that looks like the night sky complete with dazzling pinpricks of light, hair that literally floats, and the largest green eyes you’ve ever seen is petting your dog. 

“Excuse me?” You say. The woman stops and looks up at you. She smiles, and the look makes your knees weak. The smile could light up galaxies. 

“Rose Lalonde?” She asks. 

“Yes.”

“Oh, good! I want to talk to you! May I come in?” She asks, already walking over to you. 

“Please do.” You say, opening the door. You have a feeling your life is about to get very interesting. 

 

* * *

 

 

Movie night is always an experience, at least when you spend it with Aradia. You duck into her hive, laughing uneasily as you see her rushing about with an armful of bowls that are filled to overflowing with chips. 

  “Hey, do you want some, uh, help?” You ask, and she shakes her head vigeriously. 

 “Nope! Go sit down. I’ve got Troll Indiana Jones on the menu. Can you just get it going?” She asks. 

  You nod and retreat to the couch. You press play, but you watch her as she drops the food on the coffee table and flops down next to you. Once she’s down, you scoot over and lean against her, soaking up her lovely warmth. She’s not that much warmer then you, but she’s warm enough that she makes a good snuggler. 

  The two of you watch the movie, her babbling through it and sampling all the snacks in the first ten minutes and you laughing at her jokes and sticking to the grubcorn and milk. It’s an experience, and a good one. 

 

* * *

 

Terezi is a horrible model. She fidgets and pokes and twitches and talks and insists on licking all the fabrics before you put them on her, so she can see the color and design and approve it. You put them on weather or not she approves them. 

  Finally, she jerks around to sniff in the direction of the door and mutters something about pasta and tomatoes. You give an exasperated sigh and prod her with the tip of your need. She yelps and looks down at you, outrage on her face. 

  “Miss Spearmint, I call bullshit on your disciplinary actions! Needle poking is _not_ an accepted form of torture in any of the four tiers of torture methods!” She says. Your lips twitch, but you force yourself not to smile. 

  “I am sure that very few models fidget as much as you so I obviously need new torture methods. Please hold still.” You say. You return to your hemming, and she huffs, but holds still. 

 

* * *

 

 

  It’s when you’re shopping with Meulin that you find them. They’re black teeshirts with large white words, and they’re _perfect_. You reach over and tug on Meulin’s sweater. When she turns, you sign to her. (You can’t speak english and she couldn’t hear you even if you could. You _can_  speak A.S.L., though, and so can she.)

  _This shirts._  You sign, and then pull one of the rack. She gasps and then nods and grabs one in her own size. 

  She buys them both. Once you rip off the tags, you just pull it right over the shirt you’re wearing. Meulin sheds her sweater and pulls hers on as well. 

  Porrim is another part of the mall, looking over earrings. You find her, and point at your shirts. Her mouth twitches and then pulls up into a smug, yet dignified smile. 

“Boys suck. Couldn’t have said it better myself.” She says, and then chuckles dryly. You agree with her there. 

 

* * *

 

 

Eridan has these little signal. When he’s stressed, he pulls on the bottom of his shirt. When he’s happy, he fiddles with his sleeves. When he’s sad, his hands are still and limp at his side. When he’s angry, they’re clenched tightly or crossed in front of him. Dirk has learned these signals, and he knows them as deeply as he knows the feeling of his soul. 

  He always tries to remind Eridan he’s there. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. When Eridan is sad, Dirk holds his hand and rubs his thumb against the back of it. When he’s angry, Dirk holds onto his wrist to keep him from hitting anyone. When he’s stressed, Dirk strokes his wrist. He never _interrupts_  what he’s doing. That would probably make the problem worse. But he’s always _there_  for Eridan, and he makes sure Eridan knows.

  
  



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